


Comfortable Silence

by euhemeria



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-08 13:22:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15244305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euhemeria/pseuds/euhemeria
Summary: In so many ways, they have become alike, have been molded by their love into similar shapes, such as now they look and feel as if they were made for one another.  Love is not so simple; they were not made for one another, and no one is.  They fought for this, for this peace, fought with themselves, their own insecurities and doubts in order to be able to be open with one another, to learn to trust and to love.Or,Fareeha reflects upon her relationship with her wife, seven years in.





	Comfortable Silence

**Author's Note:**

> this was my ovw femslash exchange fic for this year... from march... that im finally posting. i mean i havent posted mine from 2017 yet either SO... i guess ill probs post it eventually

Silence is rarely a good thing, in Fareeha’s line of work.  In the field, it means that her enemies lurk unseen, that an ambush may be just around a corner, or a sniper waiting on the rooftops, and so it has come to unnerve her, wherever she is.

Wherever she is, except, of course, for here, lying on the couch in the evening with her head in Angela’s lap, and one of Angela’s hands idly carding through her hair.  Here, she cannot hear anything but the occasional whisper of paper when Angela raises her hand to turn the page—the sound is so gentle it does not remind her of anything. Here, she cannot hear the sounds of the dead and the dying, of battle, of war, could not imagine them from the gentle hums Angela makes when she finds something particularly interesting, or the click of her wife’s tongue when she disagrees with a passage.  Here, she cannot hear the thoughts which otherwise plague her, is blessed with silence, plain and simple.

Seven years ago, she could not have imagined herself thankful for such. Seven years ago, she was the first to fill a lull in conversation, the first to break the tension, but now—now she is content just to lie here, for hours on end, her own book in hand. Seven years ago, silence chafed at her, but seven years ago she did not know Angela Ziegler.

She thinks, for a moment, to remark upon this, how much her life has changed in that time, how she has grown, changed, become stronger and better—not only for knowing Angela, but because being with Angela has made her  _want_ to do more for herself, to reach equilibrium so that the two of them can have moments like this, of peace—and how Angela has done the same.  She thinks to, but to remark upon silence is to break it, and she wants this moment of peace to last just that little bit longer.

In any case, she thinks that Angela knows.  No, she is  _certain_ that Angela does, has felt it in the way that Angela sometimes kisses her deeply, in these quiet moments, with no cause or intention, has seen it in the way her wife looks at her when she thinks she will not be noticed, eyes brimming with emotions unnamable, has heard it in the thickness of Angela’s voice, sometimes, when she says  _I love you_ , in these witching hours, for no reason other than because she does—Fareeha knows what these things mean, for time and again she has done the same.  In so many ways, they have become alike, have been molded by their love into similar shapes, such as now they look and feel as if they were made for one another.

Love is not so simple; they were not made for one another, and no one is.  They fought for this, for this peace, fought with themselves, their own insecurities and doubts in order to be able to be open with one another, to learn to trust and to love.  

It is a strange contradiction, fighting for peace, but it is one that has followed Fareeha ever since she enlisted.  That struggle has defined her, as she tries to parse out the morality of her work, of her mother’s legacy, of Overwatch, and so it is unsurprising that it would find her, even here.

Or, it  _has_ found her here.

These days, it finds her less and less; there are still times, of course, when she must work hard to love Angela, and her wife must do the same, the two of them still have weaknesses and insecurities and conflicts, for they are human, but loving one another has grown easier, with time, has grown more familiar.  

Now, Angela instinctively rubs her back in the most soothing pattern when her nightmares wake them both.  Now, she does not struggle to tell her wife about them, to admit to vulnerability and weakness, to be open with her pain.  Now, they have more and more moments like this of peace, of stillness, of silence.

No longer does silence ache with the weight of words unsaid, no longer is it something that must be broken, or run from, no longer does it signal danger. Instead, sometimes, silence is like this, the two of them curled up together on the couch, Fareeha marveling at how well they fit.  Instead, sometimes, silence is more intimate than conversation, brings them closer to one another than speaking ever could, when the things they feel are so vast and so great that no number of words could ever encompass them.

Of course, Fareeha often tries, even knowing it is futile.  Every day, she and her wife say that they love one another, and it is still not often enough, nearly, to capture how much it is Fareeha feels.  No matter how good Fareeha is with words, no matter how well she phrases such things, simple speech is insufficient to communicate her love, is worth somehow less than this silence between them which often follows such a declaration, and the knowledge that comes with it that they are both thinking and feeling the same thing.

“I love you,” she says, closing her book for the moment it takes and hoping that despite the inadequacy of the statement her wife can feel the sentiment behind it.  “I love you more than I can say.”

“I know,” answers Angela, fingers never stopping their motion in Fareeha’s hair, her words not hesitant for even a moment, “I love you too.”

“More than you can say?” she asks, as she does every time.

“More than anyone could,” her wife assures her, and the conviction in her voice is unmissable.  No matter how many times the two of them say this, it is no less true.

They lapse again into silence then, not for a lack of things to add but because there are too many things they could, and Fareeha thinks that here, like this silence can be good, and more than.  Here, like this, she could ask for nothing more.

**Author's Note:**

> i totally forgot i wrote this til literally just now LMAO. like i was reading it like "this has to be mine bc its my style and i posted it but...."
> 
> w/e w/e
> 
> hope u enjoyed <3


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